The Tale of Aailyah Haviland
by slimeball supreme
Summary: A female self-insert is added to the story of V as a fourth unneeded protagonist. Instead of making my own original story, I'll basically copy the one from the game - but with a couple new lines and cringier dialouge. Terrible RDR ripoff S&F missions coming soon. Parody of standard GTA V fanfics. The name switches at the end are intentional. CANCELLED


Michael De Santa walked cheerfully into his home. He had just pulled of his first robbery in years, and by 'just' I mean a few days ago. In fact - he wasn't that cheerful. He'd really just been crying in his car for the past half hour and had only just taken a few prescriptive meds to ease the burning pain in his soul. There wasn't much to be happy about when you realise you just gunned down several innocents in a jewellery store. The pure emptiness was enough to drive a normal man insane. He'd heard screams not many others would ever hear. The pleading. Bringing out the wife and kids thing. He still did it - but it didn't help. Oh look, Amanda!

"Oh, there you are!" She said with a presumably faked smile.

"Hey," Michael snapped back, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible - he had just been reflecting on his personal mental wellbeing and his own messed up morality.

"I feel like we haven't seen each other in forever." Amanda said. It was probably a good thing, she always forgets. Michael had just fucking risked his life to save her from store security by blowing a guard's head off and stealing a parked police car. How had she repayed him for this? Probably by sleeping with her Yoga instructor.

Michael forced a grin, but it faltered and ended as a half-assed smirk. "You wanna have some dinner later?"

Amanda thought about this question for a second. It was nine in the morning and he wanted some dinner? What type of question was that anyway? 'Hey Michael, wanna communicate to each other later?' Actually, that was probably a bad example.

"Oh, I'd love to..." Amanda began. She didn't want to miss Fabien at his place, and she needed an excuse. "But Yoga waits for no-one!"

Quickly speed walking out of the room, Michael sneered. Yoga. Of course. Totally. Before he could piss himself off any further, Michael closed his eyes, thought about Whiskey, and went for that bottle on the table in the living room.

As he was sipping the liquor on his couch, Franklin Clinton, Michael's new friend/associate/heist buddy, walked into the house completely uninvited for almost no reason. He'd grown a beard and afro, for some reason - and had finished off his questionable hairstyle choices by wearing normal people clothes like sneakers and jeans. "What's crackin'?" He said, for some reason, exaggerating urban street slang and treading mud all over the goddamn carpet. Thanks, Frasslin. Michael chuckled to himself.

"Ho, hey!" Michael said, getting off his seat and immediately heading for the Whiskey. Franklin had this type of slightly pleading look on his face, so Michael quickly poured him some too.

"So, we all good?" Michael began, trying to start conversation without sounding like a weirdo.

"Hell yeah we good, we did it!"

"You're fuckin A right we did!" Michael responded, ignoring Franklin's confused expression thanks to that remark. "So, here's the shot."

Michael handed the drink to Franklin waltzed over to the couch. "Lester's offloading the gems, he knows a guy who can get us fifty cents on the dollar!"

Franklin choked a bit, and pumped his hand up in the air. "Mmmm!" He was probably trying to add something meaningful to the discussion, but Michael seriously doubted it.

"We might actually have some spending money left after we pay off that psychotic Mexican motherfucker!" Michael cheered. But deep, deep down - he knew that this money would not fill the now enlarged hole in his soul. Killing does bad things to people. "Phew, cheers!"

Franklin tapped his bitchin' ass shot glass over up on his boy Michael's. "So that's that, right?"

"I hope so." Michael responded.

"The whole job, anyone who knows anything about it... anyone who knows your file!" Said a stranger who had just barged into Michael's home uninvited.

Michael thought one thing from the voice. It was Dave. Fucking Dave, always ruining a good time. What a dick. Michael decided to play dumb with the corrupt federal agent. Oh yeah, did I mention he's a corrupt federal agent?

"Davey! Long time no see!" Michael said happily, with a twinge of shit acting and an overall bitter tone. The truth of the matter was that Dave usually came over once a month, mostly bitching about Michael's habit of making a ruckus and then drinking all of the rum in the house.

Dave was panting, very heavily. Michael presumed he was either freaking out thanks to the robbery he SUPPOSEDLY did, or he'd ran here. Probably needed to.

"And what about Trevor? If that fruitcake realises, no, no… finds out you're alive, then we are D-O-N-E fucked!" Dave said, all panicky.

"Don't worry, Trevor is dead, gotta be. I can only foresee countless amounts of awful self-insert Fanfictions starring Mary Sue main characters and with that inconsistent, terrible character as their love interest. That hasn't happened yet." Michael turned to the reader with a glassy stare and a slight smirk. "Right?"

Dave stared at Michael with a look that can only be described as 'visibly anguished'.

"Besides - I have no clue what you're talking about." Michael said. Franklin, who is probably a bit slow in the mind, chuckled a bit - completely confused. Idiot.

"You're joking, right?" Dave said. Frustrated, Dave took out his phone and at the same time turned on Michael's projector. The phone had a large quantity of Fanfictions about sexy perfect women fucking Trevor, while at the same time a news report played on the screen.

"Police say the robbers escaped with millions of dollars worth of gems, and the blood of eight people on their hands. Albert Stori, a worker for the Los Santos Department of Transit, escaped luckily with his life." The reporter passed the microphone to the man.

"I was just doing my job, and I say 'Hey - you gotta move these bikes!'"

Michael turned the TV off. "I don't know anything about that."

Franklin felt queasy. "This gon' be the part where the story gets all fucked up, man. Fuck."

Michael turned to Franklin with a stony look. "Even without it being a fan fiction. This game had a really bad story, Franklin."

Dave looked at the two of them with a concerned expression. " **FUCKING WHAT?** "

* * *

Halfway across the state, in a shitty little trailer, a horrible character was fucking a methhead biker's girlfriend. The usual in the sticks.

Trevor had the girl, Ashley, bent over the bench of the cockroach infested shithole while he just rammed her. For no discernible reason, Trevor had left the TV on while they were doing it - leaving it on Weazel News while they went at it. Trevor would get turned on by missing persons reports and special reports about murdered children. Sometimes he'd stop whatever he was doing on try and see if Michael was on the TV. He'd already done it today, stopping a shit when he heard a guy that kinda sounded like him on a Dog Food commercial.

"Then another guy came over, and said "You forget a thousand things every day - and make sure this is one of them. It was corny - but intimidating at the same time."

Trevor pulled out and zipped up his… sweatpants? Wait, hold on, he had a zip on his sweatpants? Uh, anyway… he pulled out and stared at the TV for a bit.

"You wanna get lit now, sugar?"

Trevor ignored her. This might've been the real deal. Motherfucker.

"Trevor, baby, you wanna smoke up now?"

Trevor continued walking, leaving the trailer to a bit of commotion. Outside, a tall, threatening biker was being held back by a juggalo and some guy with a brown hat.

"TREVOR! You been with my girl again?" The Biker said. His name was Johnny. A tall, gruff guy from the gritty parts of Alderney. Trevor had done smack with him one time, he wasn't too into it but that didn't matter. Trevor had been fucking around with The Lost, his motorcycle gang, behind Johnny's back. He'd gotten a bunch of quiet douchebags from the city to do the dirty work while he ran away to Bumfuck, San Andreas. Trevor, the barely functioning retard that he is, walked right past in a dazed and confused state - Pißwasser in hand.

"I'm speaking to you, asshole!" Johnny repeated, making sure Trevor hadn't hit his head too hard while fucking his girl in the ass.

"I told him Trevor, I told him!" Brown hat man said. Johnny suspected Brown hat man must've been fucking Trevor, as no human on the planet would be that connected to someone they ain't fucking, Johnny thought.

"We all get high, we all get high! But that don't make it right!" Johnny said, like a sane person would.

Ashley, the methhead slut with low enough standards to fuck a dirty man who probably doesn't even wipe, left the shitty dilapidated trailer to watch all the commotion. "Leave it!" She shouted, hoping Johnny wouldn't shout at her too much for fucking a fourth person within a week.

"The crystal's got us, babe - but that don't make it right, that don't make nothin' right!"

"Leave it, Johnny!" Ron insisted, repeating himself for, like, the third time.

"I AIN'T LEAVIN' NOTHIN'!" Johnny shouted at Ron, who crawled up into a ball and cried in response. "Hey, Trevor! I'm talking to ya, motherfucker."

"Are you? What're you sayin'?" Trevor said, the stupid cunt he was. The two were extremely close now, Johnny was visibly seething while Trevor had some dopey sheepish grin on his face. Aailyah Haviland, a spunky, incredibly attractive, flawless woman, noted this while she stared through her sniper rifle.

"Got him…" She said, her incredibly attractive face (which looks like the hot chick in my fav game btw) mouthed the words out of her southern accent she got after being born in a state not even close to the south and being raised by the mob for some reason.

She had impeccable aim, like I said - no flaws, so she could probably hit the target with the gun facing backwards. But instead of channeling her Mary-Sue powers, she decided to let the conversation continue instead of fucking up the timeline and possibly causing a rip in the space-time continuum.

"Fuckin' my girl, man." Johnny said. "It's wrong." He seemed visibly anguished saying this, looking at the ground and his hands on hips.

"Oh, well I gotta fuck someone. Do you want me to fuck you instead - is that the problem?" Trevor asked. Predictably, this was where Johnny figured Trevor would kill him. Johnny played along.

Trevor came close to Johnny, smirking a little as he started doing a humping motion against Johnny. "Take off your pants, cowboy. Let's... fuck."

"You think this is funny?" Johnny mumbled, playing the 'I'm on meth so I'm real submissive pls kill me' act for Trevor.

"GET 'EM OFF!" Trevor shouted. He probably actually wanted to fuck him, Johnny contemplated as he reached for the switchblade.

"I told him to leave it, Trevor! I told him!" Ron bitched.

"Shut up, Ron." Trevor said, saying exactly what the reader was thinking. He turned back to Johnny. "I'm about to fuck me a methhead, get my boy sucked from his toothless gums."

"Fuck you, Trevor!" Johnny shouted. He turned his back and walked away a bit. He hoped this would work. Annabel, instead of focusing her sights on the retarded warmongering shit lord with no regret of sleeping with a guy's partner, focused instead on the biker she was being paid to kill. Anything for a buck so she could buy more intentionally worn clothes at a designer shop instead of actually doing anything important. Because money. Anyway, Johnny's head was in the crosshairs.

"I still love her." Johnny said, a mixture of sad and furious.

"Hey, hey, come on, shhh." Trevor said, putting one hand on Johnny's shoulder. His plan was working! He could do anything now!

"I didn't mean anything by it man, I just messed up…" Johnny said, lying.

"Hey I know, it's okay, cowboy. It's okay man, give me a hug." Trevor said. As Johnny embraced Trevor, he slid the switchblade into Trevor's stomach and pulled back, blood spilling out onto the dirty road. Staring at Trevor as he slumped to the ground, his bottle in prime smashing position. Any millisecond later and the only sentient part of him that would've been left would be a bit of brain on the bottom of Trevor's boot.

"I ain't a cowboy." Johnny said, walking away while Trevor winced on the ground. Ashley was in shock, staring at Johnny - reminded of a time he saved her from a drug den in North Algonquin. Meanwhile Wade and Ron rushed over to Trevor. Aailyah, panicking, tried shooting Johnny as he walked away, but the bullet missed and hit Ashley in the neck, killing her. Oops.

As Johnny got on his bike and ride away, Aailyah looked horrified at the mess that had just occurred. The target had gotten away. She'd hit a innocent. "Looks like no bounty for me!" She cheekily said, with literally no regret for killing an innocent. Probably just a first small mistake. Aailyah can't make mistakes. Not ever. That's unheard of, how could she?

She pulled her phone out and rung Maude, her employer. Now - I have no idea about on-universe brands, as I haven't actually played this game. My only experience was skimming through the GTA Series walkthroughs and pretending like I've played it before. So I'm just going to refer to this product by its actual IRL name for no reason because I'm a complete faggot.

As I was saying, she got out her Samsung Galaxy S3, because it can apparently take a beating, it's real cool, and I own the phone IRL so I wanted it in the fic. It's really cool.

"Hey Maude, the target isn't dead." Aailyah said.

"Um, pardon me?" Maude said, in complete shock. "How the fuck can you miss the target?" Maude was swearing. OOC is serious business.

"I wasn't paying attention." Aailyah said. "It's a tiny mistake that won't happen again because I'm flawless in every single way possible did I mention I have a firm ass yet?"

Maude sighed. "This is the third fuckup this month. Last time you let a serial rapist get away."

"It was a small accident. Nothing bad came out of it."

Maude sighed. Again. "I don't have anymore work, and I wouldn't give you that work if I did. Can you fuck off, now?"

Aailyah hung up. Maude reacted exactly how she thought - instant praise and nonstop happiness. She couldn't make mistakes and everyone knew it. That's why Aailyah refused to listen through that whole conversation - she already knew what she was gonna say.

She made her way over to her patriot themed dune buggy, covered in stars, stripes, and Republican bumper stickers. Aailyah had also sloshed on some gold/blue paint for some reason - she personally felt it was patriotic, even though gold and blue have no relation to patriotism whatsoever. It's also really fucking dirty. I dunno why.

She drove to the very outskirts of Sandy Shores - although I'm not being specific for some reason. She drove right up to her trailer - another unspecific one. The trailer was really clean, so the trailer looked like a studio apartment inside - for some reason. Why would I let my mini-me live in poor conditions? The furniture had a blue and gold color scheme again, because fuck you.

Aailyah stretched. She was only 23, because people who haven't been out of school for long are pro bounty hunters - fuck you again. Her employers weren't aware of this, because she was super mature and sensible for her age or something. She had curves, big tits, a firm ass, the works - and any remarks about these exaggerated attractive features was met with injury because I'm just edgy as fuck.

Her hair was kept short and was ash blonde, but she was smart because I like blondes. People around her always noted the silky smoothness of her hair, and the warm passion fruit scent that came from her designer shampoo, even though she'd never been to LS - the only place that sold the stuff - ever in her life. I wrote an entire paragraph about hair color.

Her usual outfit was a gray leather jacket with an American flag stitched on, because I'm riding this character trait into the fucking ground. She wore black jeans, black combat boots, and a green undershirt that was way too small and didn't go past her stomach because those are really hot. Who cares about abdomen injuries or vulnerability anyway?

Annabel yawned and hopped onto her bed, suddenly being tired for no reason. She was just about to sleep when her phone rang again. Annabel was sleeping at 3 in the afternoon for fucks sake.

"Hello?!" She shouted into the microphone, possibly deafening Maude and just overall being a complete bitch.

"Jesus… hello?" Maude said, slightly more in character this time. "You seemed pissed. Would it be about not killing Klebi-"

"I'm really tired." Annabel said back, cutting Maude off.

"But it's 3 PM." Maude shot back.

"Why'd you call?" Aailyah asked, dodging the question for no reason.

"It's not work. It's just that I want you to meet someone. Trevor Phillips." Maude said, shoehorning Aailyah into the plot with no prior development. "He's running his own company and might have work."

"Fine.. Tomorrow please?" Aailyah asked, forgetting a dot in the ellipsis.

"Are you fucking jo… fuck it, fine. Fuck it!" Maude said, hanging up. Only Aailyah could piss off Maude this much.

Aailyah hung up.

* * *

 _thx 4 reeding! if u cant figur out what aailyah looks liek, imagine all the hot chocks in that sexy volleyball game combined into one person mashed up with the hot chix from cod_

 _i was gunna put tervor in but i dont wana .prepare for more terrible chapters! 69+ 2 go_


End file.
